his long johns, placed his clothes on the chair, just as neatly as his friend had and stood his shoes to attention next to the bed. He slid his Mauser under the pillow and lay down next to his father. He closed his eyes. Sleep did not come. Erika Kiesewalter came several times, however. She leaned over Mock and, contrary to a prostitute’s principles, kissed him on the lips. As tenderly as she had done that evening.
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1919
MIDNIGHT
Mock was woken by the sound of laughter from below. Malicious laughter, as if someone were playing a practical joke. Mock reached for his Mauser and sat up in bed. His father was asleep. From his sunken, toothless mouth came an asthmatic whistle. Ruhtgard was snoring, but the dog was trembling, its tail between its legs. The hatch was open, just as he had left it before going to sleep. He shook his head. He could not believe the laughter. Releasing the safety catch of his gun, he approached the hatch and lay down on the floor beside it. The dog howled and ran under the table; Mock caught a glimpse of a shadow gliding beneath the ceiling of the old shop; the dog squealed; something ran past Mock as he lay there, something larger than a rat, something larger than a dog. It slipped past his hand and under the bed, avoiding Mock’s blow. He grabbed the paraffin lamp and pulled up the sheet, damp with his own sweat, which covered the gap between the bed and the floor. A child was sitting there. It flared its nostrils and smiled. Out of its nose slid a blowfly, green and glistening. More malicious laughter came from below. Mock leaped up, wiped the sweat from his chest and neck and threw himself towards the open hatch. He knocked into the chair laden with clothes. It toppled over and hit the basin. Hearing the clanging of metal above him, he slid down the stairs on his buttocks, ripping his long johns. There was nobody there. He heard a rustling from the drain. He quickly jumped over the counter and lifted the grille. Something was moving down below. Mock aimed the muzzle of his Mauser. He waited. From the grille loomed Johanna’s head. The scales on her neck rattled quietly. Two needles were lodged in her eyes. He fired. The house shook with the noise. Then Mock woke up for real.
BRESLAU, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1919
A QUARTER PAST MIDNIGHT
Mock stood beside Ruhtgard’s bed, gun in hand, and stared down at his closed eyes. The doctor twitched his eyelids sleepily.
“Did you hear that?” asked Mock.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Ruhtgard slurred, his tongue stiff with sleep.
“Then why aren’t you asleep?”
“Because you’re leaning over me and staring at my eyes.” He wiped his pince-nez and pressed it onto his nose. “I assure you, when you stare at someone so intensely when they’re asleep, they’re bound to wake up. That’s how we sometimes wake patients from a hypnotic trance.”
“You really didn’t hear anything? But the chair fell over onto the basin and made a racket, I fired at Eczema’s head …” Mock sniffed. “Can’t you smell the gunpowder?”
“It was only a dream, Ebbo.” Ruhtgard sat up in bed and lowered the thin legs that protruded from his nightshirt to the floor. He took the gun from Mock’s hand and held it under his large nose. “There’s no smell of gunpowder. Take a sniff. There was no shot, or it would have woken your father up. See how fast he’s asleep? The chair is still standing where it was too.”
“But look.” There was a note of satisfaction in Mock’s voice. “The dog’s behaving strangely …”
“True enough.” The doctor studied the animal which was sitting under the table with its tail curled under, growling quietly. “But who’s to know what the dog was dreaming? They have nightmares too. Like you do.”
“Alright. But you’ve noticed that my father’s a little deaf, haven’t you?” Mock would not give in. “Besides, even when he was young he was a heavy sleeper. No shot would’ve woken him up! So I fired, and he’s carried on sleeping.”
“Smell your gun,” Ruhtgard repeated in a bored tone. “And now let’s do an experiment.” He stood up, approached the open hatch and slammed it shut. Mock’s father sighed in his sleep and then opened his eyes.
“What the hell is going on!” For a man who had just woken up he had a powerful voice. “What are you doing, Eberhard? Thumping around at night? Are you pissed again or what? What a bastard …” The bed creaked as Mock’s father expressed his disdain for the night’s din with a resounding fart. Mock felt nauseated at the thought of having to lie next to him.
“Sorry,” Ruhtgard could not help laughing. “You’ve been undeservedly rebuked. But you can see for yourself, the shot would have woken him …”
“I’m getting out of here.” Mock started getting dressed.
“Listen, Ebbo.” The doctor reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case and notebook. “There are no ghosts …” Mock froze, all ears. “They only exist in your head … After we talked this morning, I asked my assistant at the hospital to research what are known as paranormal phenomena. This what he found.” Ruhtgard lit a cigarette and opened his notebook. “I didn’t want to tell you before … I wanted to keep it as a strong argument to the very end …”
“Go on then.”
“Ghosts exist in the disturbed cerebral cortex, the so-called visual cortex of the right hemisphere of the brain. Problems in this part of the cerebral cortex influence vision. They appear as phantoms, hallucinations… The aural cortex, on the other hand, is responsible for sound. If I were to open up your head and touch this cortex you’d hear voices, or music perhaps … One composer would tilt his head and note down the music he then heard. If, in addition to this, there are disturbances in the right cerebral lobe, you have real pandemonium. Because this lobe is responsible for distinguishing between the objective and the subjective. Where it has been damaged, ‘people,’ as somebody once said, ‘take their thoughts to be real people and things’. Most likely your brain is slightly damaged, Ebbo. But it can be righted … I can help you … I’ll call on the best specialist in the field, Professor Bumke from the university …”
“I’m not convinced by your scientific explanations,” Mock said thoughtfully. “Because how does your neurology explain that I experience this anxiety, these nightmares, only in this house and nowhere else … Damn it!” He raised his voice. “I’ve got to leave this place …”
“Well then go! Move to another apartment with your father. A better apartment, one with a bathroom!”
“Father won’t agree to it. He only wants to live here, and he wants to die here too. He told me once …”
“Well then you leave for a while!” Ruhtgard extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray, stood up from the table and rested his hands on the bulky mass of Mock’s shoulders. “Listen to me! Get away from here for two or three weeks. Take a holiday and get away. Take a break from everything — corpses and ghosts … You’ll build up your strength, catch up on sleep … Go to the seaside. Nothing calms like the sound of shifting sand and the monotonous murmur of the sea. I’ll go with you, if you like. We could go to Konigsberg and eat flounder. I’ll put you under hypnosis. You can trust me. We’ll get to the root of all your problems …”
Mock buttoned up his shirt in silence. As he slipped in a cufflink he pricked himself. He hissed and glanced at Ruhtgard with animosity, as if he were to blame.
“Come on, get dressed and let’s get going …”
“Where on earth?” There was resentment in Ruhtgard’s voice.
“Get dressed, please, and let’s go … to your hospital …”
“What for?”
Mock smiled to himself.
“For the housecoat and nurse’s hat …”
“I beg your pardon?” The doctor barely controlled himself.
Mock smiled again.
“I’ve met her at last …”
BRESLAU, THAT SAME SEPTEMBER 7TH, 1919
TWO O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING
